Doomed To Repeat It
by allakimbo
Summary: A fix for that terrible finale: what can you really learn from mistakes made in the past...or the future, for that matter? Complete!
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek and all the characters created therein.

Summary: What one worn-out, ridiculous TNG plot device has torn asunder, let another worn-out, ridiculous TNG plot device bring back together.

A/N: This look at the finale does bring in elements and characters from TNG!

A/N 2: This was originally written for the House of Tucker; all italics were formatted i/i for that submission and I tried to change them all in this one--my apologies if any were missed.

* * *

Doomed To Repeat It

1. Dying

I was surprised by the explosion, I didn't think it would feel like that. Okay, admittedly, I didn't entirely think it through. I guess I thought it would be a flash of light and then nothing…well, one out of two ain't bad. It was a flash of light and then it hurt like hell. But that was then.

So this is what it's like to be dead. At least I think I'm dead. I don't think I'm in that hyperbari-whatever-chamber anymore. You'll have to forgive me, I didn't catch the whole name. I was dying at the time, though.

I don't think I'm there anymore, though. I feel…lighter. Freer. There's no pain. I'm not even worried about that stupid speech anymore…not that it's stupid, it was just a silly thing to focus on while I was dying. So many things to be said, but I just couldn't say them. But you never know how you're going to take your death, I guess, until it's actually there. I'm sure the Captain knew what I meant.

I crack open my eyes, some part of me still thinking I might just see the inside of Phlox's magical medical machine in Enterprise's sickbay. I don't. I notice two things right away.

The first is that I'm standing, and that I'm whole. I inspect my uniform but all the parts of me that are supposed to be inside are firmly where they're supposed to be and all the parts of me on the outside are smooth and unbroken. No blood, no bones, nothing's leaking. I smooth my hands over my uniform and wonder why, in death, I'm still attached to Starfleet. Interesting.

The second is that everything is white, the whole room—if it's a room, that is. I can't make out the edges and there are certainly no doors or furniture. It reminds me of the white space T'Pol and I used to share, once upon a time.

T'Pol. Why was I babbling about that speech when I could have been telling her…telling her what, exactly, Trip?

Those were some wonderful times, when we were together. You know how everything is new and exciting when you first start going out with someone? How everything they say is interesting and clever? How every little detail is unique to them and them alone? Well, try a relationship with someone from a different species. I guarantee it'll knock your socks off.

Too bad it didn't last. I know she had an easier time putting it behind her than I did…

"Are you sure?" a voice asks.

Oh my god. "Oh my God," I say aloud, without irony. My heart (why do I still have a heart?) is beating a mile a minute. I am, quite literally, about to meet my maker.

"Oh don't be so melodramatic," the voice continues, exasperated. Next to me (he wasn't there a minute ago!) stands…

A Starfleer admiral? Geez, I knew Starfleet had fingers in a lot of pies but this is ridiculous. He has brown hair and brown eyes and is slightly taller than me. He looks at me with a mix of amusement and disdain.

"You humans have such a tendency toward drama. It's really unnecessary." He leans forward and puts his nose close to mine, squinting. "Like regret."

"Huh?" I croak. Not the most eloquent start, but I think you'll agree I deserve a little leeway while I'm getting my bearings here. I just found out God is a Starfleet admiral, okay?

"Oh, very well put," he sniffs. "As always, the human mind is a wonder to behold."

"Who are you?" I ask. "Am I dead?"

He flaps a hand. "Dead or alive, alive or dead—you think in such _limited_ terms. You're neither. You're both. Think of it as somewhere in between."

Okay. What the hell does that mean? I'm about to ask when he raises a hand to silence me.

"Commander Charles Tucker III of the starship Enterprise, think of me as your guardian angel, the ghost of Christmas past, he who watches the watchers," he waves his arms expansively, "…and think of this as an addendum to your story."

Now I am really confused. "A what? What's going on?"

He sighs and drops his arms. "This was so much easier with Picard." Before I can ask anything else he snaps his fingers and disappears.

Or rather, _I _disappear.

* * *

A split second before winking him out of existence, Q regarded the nervous human before him with a mixture of sympathy and disdain. Well, mostly disdain. He snapped his fingers and the engineer was gone.

"Have fun," he said smugly to the empty air of the blank white space he now occupied alone.

"That was abrupt," a voice over his shoulder observed. A blond man in a set of neutral coveralls stepped out of the ether and stood beside Q.

"Only way to stop all the questions, questions, questions."

"He didn't ask many."

"Oh, believe me, he was just getting warmed up. Once he realized this wasn't the kind of afterlife usually advertised in the brochures—the kind with," Q made a face, "angels and clouds and puppies and their silly deities—it would've been nothing but questions. Humans tend to use them excessively to try to understand things obviously beyond their grasp. Much better instead to get him started right away."

"Started on what?" the blond man asked, curious.

Q raised an eyebrow and refused to look at his friend. "Wouldn't you like to know."


	2. 2

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek and all the characters created therein.

* * *

2. All Engineers Go To Heaven. Or Something Like That.

"I don't believe it. I've died and gone to Engineering," I mutter to myself.

A passing crewman dressed in a black uniform with a yellow torso gives me a bemused look as he passes. "I feel that way all the time," he confides before disappearing through a nearby door.

How do I know this is engineering? There's no other place this could be, although it's a far cry from any engineering department I've ever seen. Strangely, I feel pretty calm about this whole thing. I mean, I'm still trying to get over the shock of dying—if that's what that was—and being transported…well, transported wherever _here_ is.

I briefly wonder if Malcolm will wake up on a firing range when he dies, but that thought is interrupted by a very loud thrumming noise coming from…I gasp.

The engines that span three stories from floor to ceiling before me are…amazing. I've never seen anything like it, except for a prototype drawing of a Warp 8 engine that one of my crazier professors at the academy liked to show students. That drawing, which I thought as realistic as a photograph of a unicorn, doesn't hold a candle to this. How fast do these babies go?

"Ensign, do you have those propulsion calculations?"

Huh? Who you callin' _ensign_ bub?

A dark skinned man is standing before me. His eyes are covered with some kind of device so it's hard to know where he's looking…or if he is at all…but he must be speaking to me. There's no one else.

"Those calculations, ensign. _Today_."

For the first time I realize I'm holding something—it looks like a PADD, only smaller and sleeker. I'm also wearing a uniform similar to everyone else's—black and yellow.

"Uhhhh…" Uncertainly, I hold the PADD out to him and he takes it.

"You all right, Tucker?" he asks.

At this point I'm beyond trying to figure out how he knows my name. If this is some elaborate practical joke, there's not much I can do now except play along. But…I don't think it is a joke.

"I'm fine," I tell him. "Thanks…sir." He's got three pips on his collar and even here I know that means higher rank than ensign.

"You've been down here for almost two shifts. Why don't you take a break?" the man suggests. "I don't need anybody making mistakes because they're tired."

Seeing as I don't know how any of this stuff really works, taking a break is probably a good idea. He has no idea how many mistakes I could make here. I nod agreeably.

"Fine," he tells me, engrossed in the PADD I gave him. I know that look—the complete absorption, the disregard for everything else when the pressure is on, the fanatical attention he's paying to those calculations…this guy is the Chief Engineer. "See you back here next shift."

"Yes sir," I tell him, but he's already turned away from me and is heading toward those magnificent engines. I'd like to get a look at them but right now everything in me is saying get out of here before someone asks me to do something engineer-like, so I scoot.

As I'm leaving it occurs to me that maybe this isn't heaven and I'm not dead at all. After all, what kind of heaven busts you down to _ensign_?

* * *

"Ah, met Mr. LaForge, I see."

Trip nearly jumped out of his skin as he rounded a corner and ran into the Starfleet admiral he'd last seen in the in the vast white space of his death. Or whatever that was. This time the man wasn't dressed as an admiral, he was wearing a uniform similar to the one Trip was wearing. This one, the engineer noticed, was red and had a row of four pips lined neatly along its collar.

"Captain now, huh?" Trip asked. "I know how you feel, I got demoted too," he fingered his collar sarcastically. "You want to tell me what the hell is going on yet?"

The man considered it, then started walking down the corridor. Trip scrambled to keep up. "No, not yet, I think. But I am glad to see you're getting along well. I thought you would be comfortable in engineering to start off."

"I'm dreaming. I must be. That's the only reasonable explanation." Trip wasn't listening. Q reached out and pinched his arm—hard. "Ooow! What'd you do that for!"

"There—you aren't dreaming. And you're not _dead_. At least not yet." Trip rubbed his arm and glowered at Q. "Oh all _right_. I'll tell you why you're here. Now pay attention, and follow—" a tall bearded man in a red uniform barreled around a corner and brushed past them. Q pointed decisively, "—that man."

"Who, him?" Trip asked, nodding after the retreating figure. When no one responded he realized that he was once again alone. "Dammit!" he swore and ran after the bearded man, just catching him as he slipped through a nearby door into what appeared to be a lift.

I'm getting pretty tired of that disappearing act already, but I follow the big guy down the hallway and into some kind of lift. I'm wondering if I should talk to him and the door is about to close when someone calls out, "hold that lift!"

A pretty brunette in a blue uniform—boy, they're a colorful bunch!—steps into the lift with us. The larger man nods to her and straightens up. I used to do the same thing when T'Pol was around, I remember. She simply smiles at him.

"Deck 8," she tells the lift.

"Deck 11," he informs it. Neither one of them seems to notice me and the car starts to move.

"So," he asks, grinning mischievously, "did the captain choose a winner for Captain Picard Day?"

She laughs. "Eventually. Will, you should have seen it. The children were so thrilled when he announced their names."

"I'll bet he loved every minute of it," the tall man—Will—says sarcastically. "So who was the lucky winner?"

"Paul Menegay."

"I don't remember that one…" he scratches his beard. Personally I don't know how he can stand the beard—I've never liked them. Too itchy.

"It was the sculpture of his head."

Will shakes his head. "Don't remember it."

"You must not have seen it then. You would remember it—orange, lumpy?"

"Oh no—not _that_ one!" Will laughs. "I wish I had seen it, Deanna. I'll definitely have to make sure to ask him about it."

I'm feeling very out of place now because it's obvious that they have some kind of relationship with each other. Not only do I feel creepy about observing these complete strangers, but they really don't seem to know I'm even here. What gives?

They're interrupted by a soft beeping noise followed by a voice whose accent falls somewhere between the British Isles and France.

"We're approaching the Crazy Horse, Number One." the voice says. "Please report to the bridge."

"On my way, Captain," Will answers, suddenly all business.

The turbolift stops and the door slides open. Will extends an arm to usher her out. "Counselor," he says, still smiling.

She steps out and turns back to him. "Don't make fun of Captain Picard Day too much, Will. He was muttering something about Commander Riker Day when he left the conference lounge."

Commander Riker—apparently the first officer—stops smiling but his eyes are twinkling. "I'll be gentle," he tells her. "What are you doing for dinner tonight?" he asks.

Aha! I knew it!

"I have…an appointment," she answers smoothly. Trouble in paradise?

"Maybe tomorrow night then," he says, confident. She nods.

I sense this conversation is drawing to a close and I'm going to be on my way to the bridge in a minute. There are sure to be questions if an unassigned ensign shows up unexpectedly on the bridge so I make the split-second decision to follow the Counselor rather than the Commander. I'm just not ready to bluff my way through a meeting with the captain of this vessel yet. I hop out of the lift and walk in the direction Deanna has gone. Behind me I hear the lift slide shut.

Deanna does too and looks back. I try to look like I know exactly where I'm going rather than like a crazed lost stalker, but she doesn't look at me. She stares at the lift for a moment and her smile is replaced by a brief expression of sadness.

"Counselor," a deep voice booms.

Whoa—a huge Klingon approaches us—or rather, Deanna. I, apparently, am wallpaper.

"I apologize for being late." Not what I expect a Klingon to say. In fact, I didn't think they had a word in their language for "I'm sorry." Or maybe that was "thank you." Sorry Hoshi, I never was any good with languages.

"That's okay Worf," says Deanna coyly. "We have plenty of time for dinner. I don't have to be on shift for four hours."

Well hello, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Trouble-in-Paradise. I see what the problem is. Watching them walk away together down the corridor, it seems odd that she's arm and arm with this monstrous, brooding Klingon and not Will from the lift. But then relationships have a way getting away from you when you aren't looking. I kinda feel bad for Will—I know what it's like to revisit the failed remains of a relationship day after day. It's hard not to do that when you serve on the same ship.

"Hungry?"

By now I'm getting used to this. "Not really," I tell Captain-Admiral-Whatever-His-Name-Is who's just materialized beside me.

"It's a shame. I hear the food in Ten-Forward is pretty good—if you like that sort of unrefined bodily nourishment."

"What's Ten-Forward?" I ask, fully expecting no answer. I think I get about one answer for every ten questions I ask out of this guy. But no, he's ready for me.

"I'm glad you asked!" he says brightly, and claps his hands twice, servant-come-to-me style.

Our surroundings blink—and we're somewhere new. This time we're in what must be the mess hall—except it looks more like a cross between a restaurant and a lounge. There are plants strewn about, lots of comfy seating, and the view of stars speeding past from the wall of clear paneling is spectacular. This place is like a floating Hilton.

"Gee, I'm so glad I blew myself up so I could come see the mess hall," I tell my not-quite-friend.

"Oh, don't be so sarcastic. Have fun! Mingle! You lower beings seem to love your socializing so."

I open my mouth to give this guy a piece of his mind when he waves a hand toward the entrance. "Enjoy the—" the doors open and Deanna and Worf walk through, "—show!"

"Wait!" I grab my companion's arm before he can skitter away into nothingness again. "Why can't anybody see us? The guy in engineering could, but nobody's said a word to me since then. What gives?"

"Feeling left out, are we? Don't worry, it's not you. Well, not _just_ you anyway." He seems to think this is pretty funny and grins widely. I'm not laughing. "They can't see you unless you choose to interact with them." Am I buying this? No. He nods vigorously, though. "Go ahead, try it!" he points to a person carrying a tray wearing blue coveralls, obviously a waiter. This place has waiters?

I step forward and gingerly tap the man on the shoulder. Startled, he whips around and almost drops his drinks. "Can I help you?"

"Uh…yes, I'd like…"

"It's not rocket science," hisses my pal the "captain". "Just order something!" I sincerely hope the waiter can't see him, much less hear him.

"I'll have a coffee. Black, no sugar."

"Oooooh, you wild and crazy man. How can you tell the difference between being living or dead, you're so monotonous." My friend obviously disapproves of my choice, but the waiter just nods and heads off to fill my order.

"See? Now no one can see you again. It's just like real life." My companion disappears from one side of me and reappears on the other. "You have to make an effort to get noticed."

"Are you going to tell my why I'm here yet?"

"Well fine, if that's how you're going to be. I do you a favor, yes a _favor_, and this is how you are." He snaps his fingers and we're sitting at a table only a couple of feet away from Deanna and the Klingon. A cup of black coffee steams in front of me. I eye it, wondering if it's safe to drink—but hey, let's face it, if I'm not dead already, this isn't going to kill me. I take a sip.

"So?"

"So? So—what?" he asks innocently.

"You were saying? I'm here _because_…?"

"Oh that."

"Yeah, that."

He tilts his head and smiles a weird I-know-something-you-don't-know smile. "Commander, have you been happy with your life?"


	3. 3

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek and all the characters created therein.

* * *

3. An Offer I Can't Refuse

"Excuse me?" Trip's eyebrows shot up at this question.

"Your life," Q repeated patiently. "Have you been happy with it?"

"Kind of a personal question, isn't it?"

"You thought I was God not too long ago. You would've told me anything then," Q pointed out. Trip harrumphed and took a gulp of his coffee. "And you haven't answered the question."

"What does it matter?" the engineer scowled into his mug. "If I'm not dead I can go back and fix it. If I am dead there's nothing I can do about it now. If I'm neither and I'm both, as you tell me I am, then how does being _here_ help me?"

"Aha! We come to the material point," Q rested his chin on his palm. "I'll make this very simple since I know your poor synaptic pathways just can't take too much confusion." He leaned forward. "I'm giving you one chance to fix where you went wrong. Just one."

"Can you do that?"

The omnipotent entity gestured to the room and its occupants around them, in which he and Trip were currently invisible. "You tell me."

Trip's mind raced. Fix something? Hell, if it were metal and clicked and whirred a lot he could probably fix it, but this was his _life_. Was he supposed to know what exactly it was he had to fix? Was he supposed to stop himself from dying? Save Lizzie? Find a cure for Elizabeth? Not go on shore leave with Malcolm on Risa? Where had he gone wrong? The more he thought about it, where _hadn't_ he?

Q heard the rumblings of these mental stirrings and rolled his eyes. "Don't give yourself a stroke, Commander Tucker. It's really not that difficult to understand."

"Wait a minute. If I change something, won't that change a lot of other things as well?"

"Very clever." Q's sarcasm grated on Trip's nerves.

"So if I change something it could have a huge impact on the future. I could end up killing thousands of people accidentally, or erasing some important event in history…"

"I assure you, Commander, nothing of significance will change. In fact, I'll do you one better. Nothing of significance in _your_ paltry existence will change. No bringing back the dead, no accidentally killing off Ma and Pa. The bookends of life and death are unavoidable for your kind, and you won't escape yours." Q smiled. "See? That narrows your choices down, too."

"How…" Trip cast an eye around the room. "Okay, let me start over. Where—and _when_—am I? Is this an alternate universe?"

"Not exactly. It's the future. Couple hundred years. But then the future is just an alternate timeline waiting to happen, isn't it?"

The commander ignored this last comment. "How does being here help me make a choice about my life? I don't even _know_ these people."

"I've never understood it either, but I'm told it works for some…Oh, don't worry, you'll find something of use around here."

Trip was silent for a moment, letting all this sink in. "Why are you doing this?"

Q smirked. "Because I can."

A split second later Trip was alone at the table, staring at an empty seat.

* * *

Q watched the engineer glance uneasily around himself before scooting his chair closer to Worf and Troi's table. He really had his doubts that this was going to be productive.

"For all you berate the human need for answers, I found that to be a valid question." The second Q followed his companion's gaze to where Tucker sat. "Why _are_ you doing this, Q?"

"I gave a perfectly _valid_ response," Q said shortly. His reasons were his own and he wasn't about to let anyone pry them loose.

"I know you. There's more to this."

"Don't be ridiculous. What more could there be?"

I don't know…but it's not like you to play the benevolent God."

"You just don't know the depth and breadth of my multi-faceted character," Q sniffed. "Am I violating any of the Continuum's precious rules? Has anyone complained?"

"No…not yet. When you act out, we get worried. When you act out of character, we get _very_ worried, that's all."

"Oh, be gone with you," Q flapped a hand in annoyance. His friend complied and disappeared.

* * *

One thing in my life. Well, it would be nice to think that whole blowing myself up thing a little more—but my strange friend made it clear that's not going to change. And I can't bring back Elizabeth or Lizzie either. What does that leave? I think back over the entirety of my life.

Sure, there are things I wish I'd done a little differently. Breaking up with Natalie in that first year on Enterprise was hard. Breaking up with T'Pol hurt like hell. Leaving Enterprise for Columbia was a bad move. Blaming the Xindi for Lizzie's death for so long wasn't too bright…

I think what amazes me most is that when I look back at my life so much of what was good and bad is filtered through my time on Enterprise. So much of me was tied to that ship and Starfleet. I don't know if I should be proud of my loyalty or ashamed of my exclusionary focus. If it didn't fit in Starfleet or my position as engineer, I kinda lost sight of it after awhile. I lost a lot of friends that way…and more.

Had it always been like that? My thoughts are interrupted by conversation from the next table.

Deanna and the Big Guy are having a good time. At least, I think they are. They're talking about work. Hey—they're talking about Will, the guy from the lift.

"It was so nice to see him smiling. He works too hard," Deanna is saying. "I'd like to see him spend more time in the holodeck, get some more rest."

The Klingon does not comment. Even he knows that when a woman talks about an ex-boyfriend on your date it's best to stay quiet until it passes. Deanna, who seems to notice everything, notices this.

"Oh, I'm sorry Worf. How was your day?"

"It was…acceptable," he rumbles. "We reconfigured the forward phaser banks, but their efficiency only increased by 2.5, so we had to reroute the main power banks…" he goes on. In detail. For several minutes. Looks like I've found the tactical officer. Malcolm would be so pleased to know he has a lot in common with an enormous Klingon from the future.

Deanna seems pretty interested, but I can't help feeling that her mind is elsewhere at the same time. Worf must too because he suddenly stops.

"Deanna, are you alright?"

I turn and look at her. Hell, if they can't see me, why am I still sitting here? I get up and go around their table; my conscience is learning to accept eavesdropping.

Deanna is resting her head in her hand, rubbing her forehead. "I'm fine," she says. "Just a sudden headache."

"Are you sure?" Worf asks, concerned.

Deanna nods, face pale. "Yes," she manages to smile. "Yes…I think I'll go lie down for a moment." She starts to rise.

"I will escort you, Counselor."

"Oh no, Worf, I'll be fine. I'm sorry about this. Can I get a raincheck?" She barely waits for his affirmative before heading out the door.

Interesting.

Well, I can stay here with the Klingon or go with Deanna.

Naturally, I follow the woman.


	4. 4

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek and all the characters created therein.

* * *

4. A Night to Remember, Unfortunately

She's still a little pale but she seems steady enough as she walks through the corridors. It takes me a few minutes but I finally figure out that she's not going to go lie down, that was an excuse for Worf's benefit. She's looking for something. Or someone. We slow as we approach a bend and hear voices coming from around it.

"No, I really am glad to see you again, sir," I recognize Riker's voice approaching. "I haven't thought about the Pegasus for a long time. Are you sure they've found it?" He sounds worried and none too happy, a far cry from the man I saw in the lift earlier.

"I'd prefer to talk about this a little more privately," another voice says primly. They round the corner and I see that it belongs to a man with thinning hair and a uniform decked out with lots of bells and whistles. Gotta be an admiral.

"Of course," says a third man. He's wearing a captain's uniform but unlike my disappearing friend I think he earned it. He's shorter than the other two but he carries himself like a man used to giving orders…and seeing them followed. Yep, the captain.

The three of them head straight past the corridor Deanna and I occupy with barely a glance…except for Riker. Just before we are out of his range of vision he turns and stares back at Deanna as though compelled by an unseen force. Deanna nods to him in understanding, as though some message has passed from one to the other. In another instant he's gone, his attention turned back to the captain and the admiral.

How did she know? It's obvious she did. She felt something go wrong with Will and came to find out what it was, there's no doubt in my mind.

It's eerie, but not because I can't explain it. It's eerie because I _can_ explain it. I've seen it before—there is more than an old relationship here, more than a waxing and waning of friendship. These two share some emotional connection, a bond. I remember the daydreams, the sudden mental images and impulses I felt when T'Pol and I were connected. She was better at managing it than I was—she could really tell what I felt. I never mastered it. But then, I never really tried, either.

Without wanting to, I remember the day I started letting that bond go. I didn't know I was doing it at the time, but now when I look back I realize it was the day our relationship ended. A lot of things changed then.

It was three weeks after Elizabeth died. You have no idea how long it took to be able to even say those words: Elizabeth died. I know it meant a great deal to T'Pol to name her that and it did to me too, but it also meant that I went to Elizabeth Tucker's funeral all over again. Unlike my sister, though, this girl never got the chance to know what she meant to her family, to her father. To me. I don't know which funeral was worse, my sister's or my daughter's. They were both damn hard to get through.

Anyway, after the funeral, Captain Archer insisted that T'Pol and I take some time off. Any hope that we might try to work through it together disappeared when she made it clear that she wished to spend her time on Vulcan meditating. I didn't say anything because we both needed some time to think clearly. I went home to my parents' place and spent two weeks helping my father fix up an old junker of a shuttle he picked up and eating my Mom's fried catfish. Mostly I thought about T'Pol.

When I got back to the ship she was already there. We were awkward around each other—the emotions she sometimes let slip through her guard when she was alone with me were gone, all except for the pain she couldn't quite suppress. I wondered what answers her meditation brought her but couldn't bring myself to ask.

Instead I found myself in her quarters one evening, a place I used to look forward to visiting but that now held too many memories of both the living and the dead. I had only meant to bring her some data about a nebula we were assigned to study, but for some reason we started talking about our relationship. At least we weren't talking about it in engineering, for once.

I can still remember every word of that conversation…

"Trip, I…have been meaning to speak to you." Her meditation candles were still lit and she was wearing one of those shapeless Vulcan robes. It seemed like she spent every free moment either reading Surak or entranced in front of those candles.

I sighed. "Yeah, I know. Me too." Here it comes, I thought. The Big Goodbye. To be honest I was almost glad—I had been in pain for so long, the thought of numbness was a blessing. In time I would get used to it, learn to let go of her. It was for the best—for everyone. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, but I could see the hurt this was causing both of us. It was too much, especially for someone not equipped to deal with emotional onslaughts.

"I don't believe our romantic relationship will prove beneficial to either of us," she said frankly. She had rehearsed it, I was sure. I was almost touched—she was nervous.

"I know," I said again. "Do you want to…take a break?"

There was such sadness in her eyes. They glimmered in the light of her candles. "Is that what you believe we should do?"

I knew why she was leaving it to me. If I said no, she would put her best foot forward and try to make it work. If I said no, then she could accept it and move on with a clear conscience. In our relationship we had always gone at her pace because this was newer and more alien to her than me. This was her concession, her effort for me—she would let me choose our next move. I respected the gesture, though I hated being the one to have to say it. In my heart I was sure of what I had to do.

"Yes. I guess we should. We're not leaving each other," I reminded her. "Hard to get away from each other when you're on the same ship," I tried to smile and failed. "It's just not…" I stopped before my voice cracked.

"…the right time," she finished for me softly, nodding. She reached up a hand and touched my cheek, brushing her fingertips along my hairline. It was the last time she ever touched me as anything other than a colleague, and the last time I felt a shiver of feeling come from her and run through me—it was a wash of heartbreak, and I shared it with her.

Turns out there never was a right time for our relationship; after that, everything was different. For a long time it felt like all the color had leeched out of my life, but gradually it came back. T'Pol and I never spoke of our relationship again, not in that manner, anyway. As I saw her getting stronger and more in control of herself I knew it had been worth it.

Which was why her questions about my leaving the ship and keeping in touch had seemed so out of place…

I break out of my reverie and realize that I'm alone in the corridor.

Well, not quite.


	5. 5

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek and all the characters created therein.

* * *

5. Learning from the Past

"Ah, reminiscing about the good old days?" Q asked as Trip began to walk down the corridor. "Tell me, have you made a decision about what you want to change?"

"Yes: nothing. I don't think it's a good idea to mess around with past decisions," Trip told him tartly.

"Oh, and I thought you were finally making some progress." Q stopped walking. Trip rounded a corner—and ran into Q again on the other side. "Finally finding some past regrets to fix."

"You mean T'Pol? Hell no, ending our relationship was the smartest thing I ever did. When it's over it's over, you have to let it go. I'm not changing that."

"Hmm." Q put a finger to his lips and furrowed his brow. "Back to the drawing board, then. You know, you seem to be having a very hard time with this."

"I'm having a hard time not strangling you," Trip growled. "Other than that I'm fine. And I'd like my uniform back."

"You'll be out of place when you try to communicate with—"

Trip scowled at the omnipotent being, who, despite his infinite powers and limitless intelligence, sighed. "Oh all right." He waved a hand and Trip found himself comfortably outfitted in his normal attire. "You know," Q continued, "I understand that when humans are troubled they sometimes seek advice from counselors. Maybe that's what you need."

Before he could protest Trip found himself inside a dimly lit room seated in a comfortable chair in a corner. Sitting several meters away at a desk was Deanna—these were apparently her quarters. Asteroids flew serenely past the windows as she worked quietly. Her comm beeped and voice identifying itself as Data floated into the room.

This was going too far—Trip started to rise to leave as she conversed with her colleague when the door chimed.

"Come in," Counselor Troi called.

The door opened to reveal a distraught Will Riker. "I know it's past office hours," he began bluntly. Obviously this was not a personal call. Trip sidled past Riker to get to the door, wondering how exactly he was going to get through it without calling attention to himself.

"What is it?" asked Troi, immediately concerned. Trip thought again of their exchange in the lift and of Deanna and Worf in Ten-Forward. Something just wasn't right there.

""It won't be long before they find the Pegasus," Will told her.

"You haven't made your decision." It wasn't a question, but a statement with certainty. She gestured to him to sit down and he complied. "The holodeck?"

"They rescued the Andorian's daughter."

Andorians? Trip wondered. The only Andorian he knew was Shran, but they couldn't possibly be talking about the contentious blue swashbuckler he knew in the 22nd century. It was quite a coincidence, though—they had just rescued Shran's daughter before Trip's death. He supposed Riker must mean a shipmate or friend—it was kind of comforting to think that in the future Andorians and humans would still be getting along.

"So you're coming to the moment of truth in there as well," Troi nodded.

Trip turned to the door, trying to tune them out as he worked on getting through it inconspicuously, but the engineer's attention was caught at the words "Romulan" and "cloaking technology."

Riker was talking about some treaty the Federation had signed with the Romulans stating that the Federation would not develop cloaking technology. Trip didn't really know what that meant, but cloaking technology sounded pretty interesting. Oh, what Malcolm would do with a cloaked ship…but Riker seemed torn up over this treaty.

"The Pegasus?" Troi asked, incredulous.

Riker went on to explain that this particular ship contained a prototype cloaking device and that someone named Pressman had developed this illegally (or semi-legally) and then somehow…lost it!…after the tests on it killed 71 crewmembers aboard the Pegasus. Apparently Riker had been on the ship at the time, a young Starfleet officer. Now both the Federation and the Romulans were looking for it—and Riker was unsure what to tell his current senior officer.

"Tell him the truth!" Trip wanted to shout at the larger man. How hard was that? The choice between an unethical order and the lives of your crew as well as diplomatic relations with other species—that should be pretty easy. But Riker was having trouble with it, for some reason.

"You didn't get this far in your career making easy decisions. I'm confident you'll make the right one now," Troi told him comfortingly.

Riker looked uncertain but as he left Deanna's quarters. Seizing his opportunity for escape, Trip followed.

* * *

Of all the things I have witnessed in this strange new reality, this has got to be the creepiest.

After Riker left Deanna's quarters I thought he would be heading off to bed himself—I thought it might be useful to know where to find him later, so I tagged along. Where he went instead…

It looked like an ordinary room—kinda dull with its black walls and yellow grid pattern—but it's really some kind of holographic generator. The holodeck, I remember Troi calling it. WhenI met theXyrillians and Ah'Len(how could I forget that, considering the trouble I got myself into), they had some technology like this, but nothing this sophisticated. Riker is actually becoming part of the story himself, and everyone in it, though artificially generated, is interacting with him…as he prepares dinner in the galley of the NX-01.

I feel so out of place and so at home at the same time that I barely notice what he's actually talking to my friends—or representations of my friends—about. He's asking them about _me_.

Malcolm (his hologram is shorter than Mal is, I think) is telling him that he thought I was a _hick_! Thanks a lot, Mal! Then again, it is only a program. How can this computer possibly know what Malcolm really thought about me? I suddenly hope he didn't write some terrible tell-all book about his time on the ship…but I somehow doubt it. No, the computer must be making this up. Although Hoshi's hologram indicates she finds me "cute"—that's not so bad.

I'm beginning to find it easier to see these people as representations and not my real friends as I notice small glitches, subtle nuances that the computer has obviously tried to fill in due to inadequate data. Travis is too chatty—and how does he know about the scuba-diving? Phlox tells Riker about the time he ordered me to get six hours of sleep and I talked him down to four—and tells Riker about me and T'Pol! The real Phlox would never have talked so openly about my relationship with her. Then there's the whole setup of this scenario—Chef would never let all these people traipse through his kitchen. He's a nice guy and all, but veeeery protective of his galley. Hoshi's complained about it on more than one occasion (she even asked me once about installing a cooker in her quarters).

It's surreal, watching this. I'm starting to wonder just what the hell Riker is doing in here. Why is he so interested in me? And why, if he has a weighty decision to make, is he hanging out here pretending to be the chef?

I don't have time to ponder this too much as Riker seems to have decided he's got all the answers he need from my "crewmates."

"Computer, objective mode," he says to no one in particular. The chef's uniform he's wearing fades away and he is back in his normal clothing. Now where are we off to? I wonder.

I don't have long to wait…and I suddenly know where we are and why Riker's asking about me.

He stands in a corner, watching Captain Archer and I as we toast the journey humanity's about to embark on and the one that's coming to an end. I remember this, of course. I have about 10 more minutes to live.

I feel oddly disembodied from what I'm watching. I know this is a recreation of my death, but it isn't playing out entirely as I remember it. It's faster, more disjointed, and I don't remember being that jumpy and nervous. Of course, everything that came after it is new to me, as I don't remember much about this at all. I just recall the pain, especially in my lungs, and talking to Jonathan about his speech.

We watch in the sickbay as I die. The doctor is beside himself and Jonathan can hardly speak. He leaves the room in a daze, walking unsteadily. I want to follow him and tell him that I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't think it through more clearly—but I did it to save him.

The strangest thing about all of this is how anti-climactic my death feels. Riker and I watch as T'Pol cleans out my room…I hope this is accurate because I can't imagine anyone else going through my personal things, even Captain Archer. I find this very comforting, though she obviously does not.

She's more emotional than I've seen her in years; she tells the captain that she wants to meet my parents. Huh? Stupid program—she met them at Elizabeth's memorial service six years ago. They loved her—my mother asked after her for months afterwards. But _this_ T'Pol says she's never met them and wants to.

I'm struck once again at how beautiful she is, and not just physically. It took me a long time to see that T'Pol was not unemotional at all, she was a complex, ever-changing canvas of emotional control and release. She never failed to surprise me and I realize with a rush how much I really did lose when we stopped seeing each other. This program better be inaccurate, because if she really was this emotional over my death then ending our relationship was for naught.

Riker watches this personal scene impassively and I want to hit him. I know he's an okay guy and this isn't his fault, but it feels like voyeurism. He's prying on T'Pol now and I don't like it. But he doesn't know I'm here and these holoprojections can't really tell him how they feel…which gives me an idea.

Before leaving, Riker stops and thinks for a moment, then orders the computer to recreate the galley again. Before he can make another request I decide it's time Riker and I had some one-on-one.

He looks surprised when I stroll across the galley, but adjusts quickly. After all, this is an NX-01 program and I'm part of the crew, right? The very part he's investigating, as a matter of fact--he probably thinks the computer is anticipating his wishes in the program.

His premise has been that he's asking us what we want for our last meal on Enterprise. Appropriate, since it seems I am a condemned man. "Fried catfish with hush puppies," I tell him. Chef does know it's my favorite, but I don't know if that was ever recorded somewhere.

I keep up the conversation about food for a while, speculating what the captain and T'Pol have chosen for their meals. He mentions that we're on our way to pick up Shran, so I play along with that too.

"Don't you think that Captain's cutting it a little close?" Riker asks, raising his eyebrows to egg me on.

"Getting back to San Francisco? He won't let anything get in the way of that." Don't I know it. But I'm afraid Riker will misinterpret my meaning, so I explain as I munch on a holographic carrot (tastes pretty good, actually). "He'd never admit it but this thing means a hell of a lot to him. He's real proud to be one of the people signing this charter...and...he ought to be."

Riker laughs it off. "You sound like a lifetime member of the Jonathan Archer fan club."

"I can count on one hand the number of people I trust. I don't mean trust like 'I trust you aren't lying to me' or 'I trust you won't steal my money.' I'm talking about the kind of trust where you know someone's not going to hurt you, no matter what. You know they'll always be there for you, no matter how bad things get." I realize I'm saying now, to this man in the future who doesn't know who I am or even that I'm actually here, all the things I wish I'd said to Jonathan after the explosion. I wanted him to know that if there was fault in what happened it wasn't him or me or anyone. It was circumstance. But I also realize that this isn't about me right now. Maybe this is what Q was talking about, changing something. Maybe someone can learn from what happened in the past--and I don't just mean Riker's old ship the Pegasus. I squint at the man dressed as chef and smile. "Ever know anybody like that?" I ask.

He looks distant for a moment. "Yes, one or two."

Seeing my chance, I grab it. "Oh yeah? What's her name?"

"What?" Riker laughs.

"We all have people we're loyal to, captains we serve—metaphorically speaking—but a look like the one you just had on your face…that's a woman."

The commander busies himself with the breading for the catfish. "Well…" I can see he's weighing it. The temptation to speak to a holographic character, someone who could never tell your secrets—hell, you could reprogram it or delete it!—is overwhelming. "When I have a problem…when I really need someone to trust…I have a friend I talk to. Her name's Deanna."

Bingo! "Deanna. Don't think I've ever heard you mention her before. But it's good to have someone you can really count on, isn't it?"

"Can I ask you something?" Riker looks up from his mixing bowl.

What have you been doing? I want to ask back but don't. "Sure."

"When you and T'Pol broke up, did you still…count on her?"

"Ummm…" What I really want to do at this very moment is find whoever programmed this holodeck and ring their necks. No one, and I mean _no_ _one_, knew what really happened between T'Pol and I when we ended our relationship—yet in here it seems to be common knowledge! Oh well. "Well, yes. Yes—we still depended on each other quite a lot. You know that list of people I trust I was talking about earlier? She's on it, right around the top. Why do you ask?"

"Deanna and I, we used to be…"

"Intimate?" I ask innocently.

Riker's eyebrows shoot up but he just nods. "But now…"

"It's over," I supply.

"Yes. Not that I'm upset about that—this was years ago—but I still rely on her so much. We developed this comfortable pattern, you know…of friendship and trust. We still have this bond between us."

I know the feeling, buddy. "What's the problem then?"

"I don't know why I'm talking about this with you," he mutters into the piecrust he's taken out of the stasis unit.

"I'm the only one here," I joke. "C'mon, go on."

"She's…started seeing someone." Yes, I've seen him. Kinda tough not to. "It's not that I begrudge her that, it's just that…it's a change in routine, you know. I don't want to lose that."

"You don't want to lose your bond," I state. I still feel really weird about this, but if Riker can get some things off my chest maybe I can too. "I know how you feel. It was hard at first, being around T'Pol all the time, but then we fell into our own pattern. It wasn't a romantic relationship, but I always knew she was there. We have a…bond too, you know."

Riker stops fiddling and looks at me with surprise. I continue. "It never really went away. We stopped using it and it kinda fell dormant, but it's still there. Getting ready to leave this ship was—er, _is_ the change in our pattern, and I have to admit it scares me. The truth is…" and it hits me. It really hits me, the truth about me and T'Pol. Here, when it's too late and all is said and done and I know that things could never be different, I finally understand what really happened between us.

"Yes," Riker prompts. "The truth is…what?"

"The truth is we never let go of one another. Not really. We just let go of the part of our relationship that could cause us the most pain."

Riker looks confused. Apparently holopeople don't normally start waxing poetic about the truth of their own existences very often, but I'm on a roll now.

"So we've been living out half a relationship all this time on Enterprise." And it's true—how stupid have I been all this time? I never dated—I was always "too busy." T'Pol never attempted to get close to the crew again, she rarely even sought counsel from the captain or Phlox. We never ended _or_ fixed what was really the problem, we just carried on as though the way things were…was the way they would be forever. I was so adamant when I told her we wouldn't lose touch because I knew that no matter what, we would always be attached to one another.

"So…you think you should have stayed together?" he asks.

I don't know the answer to that one. Should we have? "Should you and Deanna?" I ask right back. We're silent as we contemplate these questions and their possible answers. I'm still thinking on it when Riker asks the computer to end the program and marches out of the holodeck, brow furrowed.

Judging from recent experience, right about now I should expect…

* * *

"Fun, isn't it?" Q asked the engineer standing in the middle of the empty holodeck.

"You're becoming predictable," Trip said, not turning.

"Really? Transporting you to the future, showing you the next generation of intrepid Enterprise explorers—this was something you expected in the afterlife?"

"Thought you said I wasn't dead. Several times, in fact."

"You may as well be, the rate you're going with all of this." Q vanished, leaving Trip to grimly cross his arms and think uncharitable thoughts about the nature of life after death. Seconds later Q reappeared. "Are you coming?" he asked casually.

"Now listen—" Trip began, but was cut short when he realized he wasn't in the holodeck anymore.

* * *

"Ah, the bridge—the heart and soul of your precious starships. How does it compare to _your_ Enterprise."

The two now stood in the center of the bridge, between the helm and the ops consoles. Riker, Picard, and the admiral he'd seen earlier were all poised motionless in poses ranging from defensive to aggressive. There was obviously some kind of confrontation going on here that Q had put on hold. Deanna was nowhere to be seen, but Mr. Worf towered at what Trip assumed must be his tactical station.

The engineer in Trip couldn't help but answer. "Well, it's certainly bigger, comfier…I'm not sure how I feel about that. It's almost to spacious; doesn't seem like it would be to useful in a firefight, and we've certainly had plenty of—hey!"

Q had maneuvered himself into Captain Picard's chair and was lounging comfortably. "Yes?"

"What did you say the name of this ship was?"

"Why, it's the Enterprise, of course."

"Another Enterprise…" Trip muttered. He caught sight of a plaque hanging off to the side of the bridge and approached it. "NCC-1701D," he read, shaking his head. "Enterprise."

Q shrugged. "It seemed appropriate."

"What's happening to them?" Trip asked, gesturing dazedly to Riker, Picard, and Pressman.

"Oh them. Right." He snapped his fingers and everything jump-started, the scene that had been frozen now alive. "Enjoy!" he said before snuffing into oblivion once again.


	6. 6

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek and all the characters created therein.

* * *

6. Learning from the Future

All this way and I'm still on Enterprise. I'm trying to process why this bothers me so much but now the bridge is full of noise and movement so it's hard to concentrate. It becomes apparent that the ship is trapped in something—an asteroid—and the Romulans are guarding the exit. A tricky situation. They're trying to figure a way out.

"Captain, I believe we could use the phasers to cut our way out," suggests Mr. Worf. Just like Malcolm—can it be blown up? Good!

The man at Ops—a very pale man, as a matter of fact, swivels to offer his opinion. "The asteroid's internal structure is highly unstable. Any attempt to cut through the rock could cause the entire chasm to collapse."

Riker looks increasingly uncomfortable as his shipmates discuss options. Finally he speaks up.

"Captain, I have a suggestion." He draws himself up and squarely faces his commanding officer. I can tell that this is a huge release for him, finally telling his trusted captain the truth. "There's a piece of equipment in Admiral Pressman's quarters under guard that might get us out of here. It's a prototype for a Federation cloaking device."

Picard breathes in sharply, Pressman looks furious. "You just ended your career, Will," the admiral tells Riker.

"That's what it's about," Picard says softly. "A cloaking device."

The three of them fight about the treaty of Algeron and Pressman tries to commandeer the bridge, but none of the officers are having any of it. They, in fact, have moved on to modifying the device to help them escape their current predicament.

Riker's moodiness is now gone, replaced by a fierce determination to do his job. I'm happy for him—he made the right decision. But I still don't know how this Enterprise helps me. If anything, my talk with him about Deanna should have helped ihim/i more than me…

A lightbulb doesn't exactly go off over my head—but I feel I have my hand poised on the switch.

* * *

Q watched the scene undetected from Picard's chair (it _was_ comfy). He was not interested in Pressman and Riker, but Trip trying to assimilate all the information he was being presented with. He seemed so close to an answer… 

"Q!" a voice called angrily. Q knew that voice—this wasn't going to be pretty. The other Q suddenly stood beside him, looking down at him like an angry schoolteacher at an errant child. Q scrambled to his feet.

"I know what you've done!" his face was stricken with anger. "It took me a while, ooooh, you were good about hiding it—but I found the truth!"

"Truth is a highly subjective concept used by lower lifeforms to justify their own means of obtaining what they desire," Q informed him imperiously. He was trying not to appear nervous and knew it wasn't working.

"_You_ stole that Tenebian amethyst!"

"I most certainly did not!" Q tried his best to look scandalized at the very suggestion but his companion would not be deterred.

"Oh, no, not technically. No, of course not. You just slipped your thieving friend Vash back in time and let her snatch it. Do you have _any_ idea the trouble you've caused? The rules you've violated?"

"I'm sure you can't wait to tell me," Q snarled.

"_You_ are the reason _he_ is dead, for starters." The second Q stabbed a finger at Trip, who was watching Picard and Pressman argue about the treaty of Algeron and cloaking devices. "You put their lives and their history in danger so your _girlfriend_—"

"She is not my girlfriend!"

"—could get her hands on a shiny stone!"

Q was silent for a moment, trying to come up with some explanation for his actions that would placate his colleague. "We're just friends," he said lamely.

"What?"

"Vash and I, we're really just acquaintances these days, but I owed her and—"

"_I don't care!_" The second Q composed himself by taking a deep breath. He'd seen humans do it before and it seemed to calm them down. "I also know," he continued, "why you are engaged in this elaborate charade."

"It is out of the goodness of—"

"Save it, Q. We don't have hearts. No, you're doing this because you think you can change events back to the way they should be without actually interfering yourself. You think if you do it this way the Continuum will be lenient when—yes, when, not if—they punish you for all of this. It makes you look 'noble', helping the humans like this." He took a step closer to the dark haired omnipotent being. "Well I'm here to tell you, when they learn what you've done, there'll be no hope of—"

"Oh look," Q said brightly, pointing to Trip. "I think he's drawn some kind of conclusion!" Indeed, the engineer looked as though the light of realization was dawning on him. "Be right back." He stepped into Trip's visual range.

* * *

"This is another Enterprise…" Trip was saying to himself. 

"Well yes, we covered that," Q responded acidly, darting his eyes nervously around the bridge. "What about it?"

"Will and Deanna—what happens to them?"

"Oh them? They dance around one another, trading looks of longing and speeches about the value and worth of their precious friendship and how much better that is than romance."

"Really?" Funny, I kinda hoped they'd find a way to make it work.

Q nodded. "Oh yes. They profess the virtues of their platonic relationship right up until their marriage." He snapped his fingers and their scenery changed once again.


	7. 7

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek and all the characters created therein.

* * *

7. Love is the Drug

Can you get motion sickness from temporal shifting? I'm seriously starting to wonder.

We're in Ten-Forward, only it's not quite the Ten-Forward we were in earlier. It's changed, been redesigned…

"Enterprise-E," Q whispers. I wonder why he's whispering until I look around—we're in the middle of a wedding. Hey! We're in the middle of Riker and Troi's wedding! Captain Picard is performing it, and there's an aura of unbelievable happiness surrounding everyone in the room.

"How far in the future are we?" I ask Q.

"Oh, a few years." I notice that he's wearing a formal uniform now, as am I. He fishes a huge white handkerchief out of his sleeve and blows his nose loudly, wiping at fake tears. "I do love weddings so."

"How did they finally get together?"

"It happened gradually, from what I understand. They were on a planet helpingtwo race of people called the Son'a and the Ba'ku when the crew was affected by some sort of biochemical force--metaphasic radiation. It made them all—younger."

"Huh?"

"Well, it made them feel younger, anyway. Apparently that's when the two of them realized they still had feelings for one another. You see the result here." Q looked around. "Do you see a buffet anywhere? I hope Riker didn't skimp."

"Wait a second—they got together after being affected by some kind of…radiation?"

"Not exactly how I'd put it, but yes. The mind tells you funny things under the influence. Or drives you to do strange things."

It's too much of a coincidence—I realized on the bridge that I was watching history repeat itself. Here are two people on the same ship—albeit in the future—who were held apart by nothing more than themselves. They repeated for a very long time the same mistake…yes, the mistake…that T'Pol and I made. It took this…chemical reaction…to bring them together again. It took a chemical reaction of a different nature to bring T'Pol and I together.

T'Pol doesn't think I know about the Trellium, but then she doesn't know that I kept backup logs of all the equipment and stored materials on the entire ship while we were in the Expanse. Our ship took quite a beating and I couldn't afford to lose track of any of our resources. I didn't know until after she stopped using it what was going on, but I'm aware that our first encounter was…fueled, if you will, by the effects of the drug. I've always hoped she would come clean to me, to take me as her confident in this matter, but she never has. I had to go to Phlox for confirmation in the matter.

"I can not and will not discuss another patient's private medical history with you, Commander," was all he would say.

It was as good as a yes—if she hadn't used it I feel sure Phlox would have just said so. I worked out how much she could safely ingest at a time (which took weeks in itself) and figured out approximately when she started taking it. After our fateful meeting with the Vulcan ship, the Seleya.

I know that she truly cared for me, I have no doubt about this, but I guess part of me has always wondered what would have happened if she hadn't taken the Trellium. Were her feelings a result of the drug or were they the motivation for trying it? Either way I feel like I inadvertently hurt her and have been trying to make up for that ever since.

"How do they know," I ask Q carefully, "that their feelings were real, and not just the result of that radiation?"

Q shrugs. "They're not under them now, are they? Let me put it this way: everyone on the ship was under that effect…so why are Riker and Troi the only ones getting married now?"

"Because…they had latent feelings only for each other," I conclude. And there it is: my answer. I watch Will kiss Deanna; their friends grin and cry at the same time—obviously this is something that's been a long time in coming.

Yes, history has repeated itself with Riker and Troi, to a certain point. They danced around the issue of love for years, losing time they could have spent together. Would it have been easier for them to have taken another path? Should they have been together for years prior to this? I'll never know. What I do know is that they unknowingly followed a pattern T'Pol and I set out years ago…and now that the future has repeated the past it's time for the past to repeat the future.

I turn to Q as the reception band strikes up and their best man begins to sing. "I know what I want to change," I tell him.

"It's about time," he rolls his eyes.

* * *

"Trip, I…have been meaning to speak to you." Before I can blink or get myself adjusted to it, I'm back in T'Pol's quarters, six years ago.

Her meditation candles are still lit and she's wearing one of those shapeless Vulcan robes—just like I remember.

"Yeah, I know. Me too," I tell her. I know how this conversation iwent/i, but now I'm not sure how it will go.

"I don't believe our romantic relationship will prove beneficial to either of us," she says frankly.

I take a moment and try to get my thoughts in order.

"Trip?" she asks, watching me with uncertain eyes.

"I know," I say to her. "I know…you think we should take a break."

"Is that what you believe we should do?" I still see the sadness in her eyes, but there is something else there too. She's not just giving me the choice for our relationship, she's relying on my judgement. I remember the way Riker looked when he finally told Picard about that cloaking device on the Pegasus—the look of a man who had done the right thing and could live with that choice. I feel lighter, I feel relieved, I feel fierce in my determination to take the path I left behind so many years ago. I sit lightly on T'Pol's bed and pet the place next to me, indicating she should also sit. Slightly confused, she does.

"T'Pol…I don't want to take a break."

I hear a sharp intake of breath. This is not what she was expecting. Oh God, what if I'm wrong about this? What if she really doesn't want me? I'm seized by uncertainty but plow on anyway. "We've been through something terrible, something two people should never have to go through…but we aren't strangers. I don't want to become strangers now, because of this. I don't know what you want to do…but I don't want to lose you."

I can feel her staring at me…and I can feel the electricity of her emotions through our bond! My heart sings at the old familiar feeling I thought I'd left behind so many years ago. It strengthens my resolve. "I know you're uncertain about all of this, but more than ever we can't give up."

She doesn't say anything and for a long moment is motionless beside me. Then, very softly, I feel her hand over mine.

"We'll get through this together," I promise her. She still says nothing. "Is…that what you want, T'Pol?" My heart is in my throat as I wait for her reply. It comes not in words, but in a slight shift of her slender form as she rests her head on my shoulder. Overcome, I place my free hand over hers.

We sit together like that for a while—I'm not sure how long—before I decide there is still something I need to say now, before the moment passes me by again. "You know that I love you, T'Pol. I have for a long time now. It just took me awhile to get used to the idea. Can't change it now though…no use trying." I stop just short of babbling, wondering what her Vulcan response will be.

She simply runs her fingers lightly over mine. "I know," she says. It may seem like a tiny acknowledgement, but inside I feel calm wash over us both through our bond. She is scared, but she is also…content. Now I'm certain, we _will_ get through this together. I may only have six years left to live, but those years will mean something altogether new now.

* * *

Trip returned to his quarters three hours later feeling like a new man. T'Pol escorted him as far as the lift to the bridge.

"Will you teach me more of that meditation tomorrow?" he asked as they walked.

"I will, if you will promise to control your restlessness."

Trip smiled at her. "Hey, it's not easy for us humans to sit still that long. We're a fidgety species!" He raised his hands at the looks she shot him. "Yes, I will do my best."

"I'm sure you will…you did most adequately today," she conceded. "I believe this will help you sleep…and that it will strengthen our bond as well."

"Then I'm all for it," he told her. He wanted to reach out and kiss her but felt it was too soon for that yet. They were already miles ahead of where they had been only a few short hours ago and he didn't want to ruin the moment. "Well," he said awkwardly, "you'd better got up to the bridge for your shift."

She nodded and the lift slid open to admit her. Trip backed away and watched her go.

Hand on the door, the Vulcan stopped suddenly.

"T'Pol…are you alright?"

She turned and stepped away from the lift, letting the door close behind her. Breathlessly she took his hand. "Trip…"

"What is it? What's wrong?" She was obviously under some kind of emotional stress.

"I…" she took a deep breath and stared at the front of his uniform. "I…return your affection." She raised her eyes to his.

The engineer smiled and squeezed her hand. He leaned forward and placed his cheek against hers, kissing her gently. "I know," he said softly. He had finally figured that out.


	8. Epilogue

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek and all the characters created therein.

* * *

Epilogue:

Later that night:

For the first time in his entire life, Trip was rearranging his quarters. He'd never even thought about this before—he was not much on interior design. Truthfully, he was so overjoyed at being back on Enterprise and among his friends that he couldn't keep still. Malcolm was off-duty in an hour and the two were going to play some basketball then, but Trip was having a hard time waiting.

"Okay—bed stays where it is, how about switching the head and the foot…or maybe just move the nightstand here…and the chair…" he asked himself as he moved what little furniture he had to and fro.

"Everything in order?" a voice inquired.

Trip whirled to find Q draped across his bed, snooping through his personal photos. "Oh, I like this one." he held up an image of Trip underwater in scuba gear. "Nice composition."

Trip pushed his aggravation aside and cleared his throat. He'd been waiting for this. To be honest he was surprised that he still remembered any of what had transpired in the future, but he was glad he did for the moment. "Thank you, whoever you are. I still don't know why you did it, but thank you."

I had my reasons…not that they worked," Q muttered.

Trip ignored this. "Well, thank you for giving me these six years back, for giving me the chance to do them right this time."

The dark haired man looked mystified. "Six years?"

"Yeah—you know…six years until I die? Six years until we pick up Shran on the way to the signing of the charter?"

"Oh that. Well, you never know, maybe things will be different this time," Q shrugged.

"What!" Trip was aghast. "You said the outcome of my death couldn't be altered!"

"Did I?"

"Yes! You said nothing significant would be changed."

"Well _that_ I did say."

"So now are you telling me it can change?"

"I'm telling you," Q leaned forward until he was almost nose-to-nose with Commander Tucker, "that like most humans, you have an overblown idea of your own significance."

With that he winked out of existence for the last time, leaving Trip to absorb the implication of the entity's words…and wonder if he was grateful or insulted by them.

Less than twenty seconds later he forgot them…and everything else relating tothe mysterious strangerand their adventure aboard the Enterprise-D.

* * *

Q watched as the memories of the past days receded from Tucker's mind—had to be thorough about these things. His own minute experience with mortality had taught him that a person shouldn't know too much about their own death—that just lead to those horrible stomach things...unkers. No, oncers. Ulcers! That was it. Yes, it wasn't wise to dwell on such frightening uncertainties.

He supposed it should be some small comfort to know that the human would live long past the signing of the Federation charter…he had to get out of this what he could, especially as it didn't seem like the Q Continuum was going to overlook his latest infraction of their rules.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that."

"Q. Always a lovely surprise to see you," the dark haired man said to his brethren who had materialized beside him. "What do you want? Come to gloat over my ejection from the Continuum? What's the sentence to be this time? Mortality as a sea slug? An eternity of acting as a Klingon deity?"

"Actually…I'm not sure you will be exiled. Or punished, for that matter."

"What!"

The blonde Q shifted uncomfortably on his feet (how did humans live with these appendages, anyway?). "They're prepared to be…charitable in hearing your case."

"Really? What brought on this sudden bout of compassion?" he raised an eyebrow to his friend.

"I couldn't say."

Q smiled smugly at his companion.

"Okay, maybe I said that your plan to rectify your mistake had some merit." Q's grin spread. "But I don't know if that had any influence on their decision," he added hastily.

"Of course not."

"But you are on probation, Q," the blonde being warned, "so watch your step. Anther slip-up and you're out—for good this time!" With that, he disappeared into a haze of nothingness.

Q waved a hand nonchalantly. "I've heard _that_ before."


End file.
